


You Better Not Let Him In

by cftcft9090



Series: *Ludacris Voice* What's Your Urban Fantasy! [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Animal Death, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical The Stranger Content (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Major Character Injury, Mind Manipulation, Supernatural Elements, Vomiting, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cftcft9090/pseuds/cftcft9090
Summary: “Oh, forget about the trash, look!” Jon holds his open mouth up to the man. Inside his teeth buckle and overlap - just like any other human mouth would - but in an instant four razor sharp fangs shoot out from where his canines are. The man jumps at the sight, and for a moment Jon thinks he’s got him.But he visibly eases. “Oh, my, what pretty fangs you have.” He turns back to his task of sifting through the trash bags, “I didn’t know there was a vampire living around here, I’m charmed.”-------Jon doesn't remember who he was, but he sure knows how hungry he is. Martin is all for hospitality, but Tim can be a harder nut to crack, what with all this "creatures of the night" hunting business.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: *Ludacris Voice* What's Your Urban Fantasy! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119986
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	You Better Not Let Him In

**Author's Note:**

> I'm from the United States. Fair warning.
> 
> Inspiration for this fic comes from @awoogadude on Twitter! You should go check them, very good art

Jon wanders through alleyways, his brain swimming as the hunger gurgles in his veins. The hunt is his top priority, as it is every other night, in an attempt to fill his ceaseless hunger. Some nights he’ll catch a street urchin, guiltily taking advantage of a thing too weak to defend themself and too tired to tell of what they saw. Some nights he’ll be battered by people much bigger than him, forced to drag his sad bruised body back home hungry. Other nights he encounters no one at all. Perhaps those nights in solitude are the sweetest. Even if he does catch a prey tonight, he knows he won’t be brave enough to take what sates his hunger. While his guilt may subside as he wets his whistle, his conscience always prevents him from getting what he needs. What a self-defeating thing, the ego is. So on he hunts...

Down one alleyway he spots a man digging in the dumpster. He’s big and tall, his striped jumper matted with dirt. It’s any wonder why a man so put together is waist deep in the trash, but Jon’s not going to question a situation that’s to his advantage. As sick as it sounds, a distracted prey is generally a successful hunt. If he can get this man’s attention, perhaps tonight will end in his favor.

And perhaps Jon will finally get a satisfying dinner.

He approaches slowly, staring at him from a few feet away. It’s clear by the side eye he gets that the man notices Jon, but refuses to acknowledge him. He tenses even, hoping that Jon will just pass by and leave him to paw through the filth pile. But Jon doesn’t retract, instead inching closer and demanding his attention.

And it works. Now he’s in Jon’s trap.

The man turns and locks eyes with Jon. His almond eyes encase deep brown irises. There’s a warmth that Jon hadn’t felt in years: a mother’s touch, a sheepskin blanket. These irises are trapped by his own blown out ones. Vampires catch their prey with a gaze, and once captive they are highly suggestible. All Jon has to say is a few pretty words and he gets whatever he wants. Those eyes don’t drop the connection with his even as the man’s dark curls threaten to drop down into his eyes. Jon opens his mouth to speak—

“I’m sorry, do you live around here?” The man interjects, bashful, “I don’t mean to dig in your trash, I’m sorry, me and my friend are just looking for something. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as we’re done, I promise.”

Suddenly Jon is speechless. They were _making eye contact_ , he should be totally enthralled! And yet he’s just standing there making goo goo eyes and rubbing his thumbs together. This must be a fluke.

To remedy this situation, he steps into the man’s personal space and makes the most intense eye contact of his short long life. He’s sure that the man can see the way his slit pupils have exploded to swallow most of the color in his eyes. Now _this_ is fool-proof.

But the man only gives a small gasp and flushes pink across his cheeks, “Sir, I am _so_ sorry. I really don’t mean to bother you like this. I don’t _want_ to be digging through the trash, but this thing is _really_ important...”

“Bloody hell!” Gushes out of Jon as he throws up his hands. What’s wrong with the guy!? No one has resisted his enthrallment ever before. What makes this guy so special?

Perhaps this man was just strong? Perhaps he was just bigger than anyone he’s ever tried before and that makes him more resistant? Perhaps that stink of something rancid emanating off of this man was distracting him too much? Perhaps the irritation was causing him to lose his focus.

The man looks eager to please, “I’ll just be a few more minutes, I promise.”

“Oh, forget about the trash, look!” He holds his open mouth up to the man. Inside his teeth buckle and overlap - just like any other human mouth would - but in an instant four razor sharp fangs shoot out from where his canines are. The man jumps at the sight, and for a moment Jon thinks he’s got him. 

But he visibly eases. “Oh, my, what pretty fangs you have.” He turns back to his task of sifting through the trash bags, “I didn’t know there was a vampire living around here, I’m charmed.”

“I do not—“ His brows knead together as he’s about to explain himself, but the man suddenly shoots up from the dumpster and looks nervously between both ends of the alley.

“Hey, listen, it was nice meeting you and all, but you really should go now.” He pushes Jon towards the alley exit by the shoulders but Jon yanks himself away. There was no way he was going to be pushed around by dirty garbage hands. He had half a mind to give this man a thorough browbeating.

“I refuse to leave based on your personal wishes.” Jon growls and the man gets even more nervous.

“I’m serious! You need to go. You do not want to get in trouble with Tim, _please_ —“

A playful, “Martin!” echoes down the close brick walls. Martin, Jon presumes, is now forcibly trying to urge him out of the alley. But Jon stands strong. He’s not afraid, he’s a _vampire_. And suffice it to say he’s curious about Martin and why he’s different. No, he’s not going to leave.

Finally this Tim breaches the alleyway entrance. His taut brown skin is dramatically lit by a nearby street lamp and a smile is smeared across his face. He drowns in the trench coat he’s wearing, his hands stuffed in the pockets.

Alas his smile is ripped away when he spots Jon, “Who the hell is that?”

“Tim, I can explain.” Martin steps in front of Jon, hiding him with his large presence, “He just showed up. I swear I don’t know him!” It irritates Jon that he’s no longer in Tim’s line of sight. Martin’s copious sweat makes that horrible stink roll off him in roaring waves, clogging Jon’s attention. But he’s strong. He’s a vampire. Tim’s not nearly as big as Martin. Perhaps it’s time to make sure his abilities are still in working order.

He pokes out from behind Martin and, predictably, is the object of Tim’s attention. They lock eyes, and in an instant Jon feels Tim’s will burst away like spores from a mushroom. He slumps forward in his big coat. Images of dumpsters and trash cans fill his mind. Jon smiles.

“Hey, woah!” Martin turns and grabs Jon by the shoulders, “Are you serious? Do you have a death wish!?”

“Please step aside, I require concentration when I hunt.” Martin looks at him incredulously. He gnaws at his lip, and Jon catches a glimpse of his scraggly teeth for the first time. Even his front teeth are jagged – not sharp like his fangs, but definitely intended for piercing and tearing. The damp scent rolling off of him is wild, Jon realizes, something akin to an animal in the woods. A predator.

The smell in the air turns fiery. A familiar icicle of fear pierces through his cold heart, the fear of prey striking back. It’s not Martin producing this angry smell. He’s too still. But when Martin is shoved aside and there’s a hand encasing his face in a vice-like grip, he puts two and two together.

He’s slammed against the brick wall, his bifocals cracking like the snap of bones. The palm digs into his nose, threatening to snap that too. “Hunting, huh? You fucking think you can just walk around this city and jump whoever you damn well please? Think you’re hot shit?”

Jon can see through the gaps in the cage of fingers. Tim is panting, gritting his teeth about to light like flint. They’re normal teeth; not fanged, not serrated, not sharp. Normal. He’s a normal man. And yet the smell of fury crackling in the air is enough to make Jon want to fall to his knees and crawl away.

A charm bracelet dangles near his chin. On it he can see all types of religious symbols plus more. The one that catches his eye the most is the Om. “Well I’ve got news for you pal.” 

Tim pulls his head away from the wall and shoves him back again. The charms jostle. “No one. Fucks around. In my city.” Another shove. “I’ve already killed a dozen of you blood-sucking freaks this week. I’ve got a stake on me at all times.” Shoved again. “I’d kill you right now if you weren’t so fucking. pathetic!” He whips Jon around and throws him onto the ground. The Om manages to catch on the side of his chin, burning him badly. Tears are streaming down his face, one of his shattered lenses stabbed into the tender skin below his eyes.

“Not worth my time.” He turns to leave the alley, “Martin, take care of this for me. You owe me.”

“Owe you for what?” He wrinkles his nose.

When Tim turns back around, he’s got a genuine smile on his face. Not for Jon, but for Martin. He pulls something – a necklace it seems – out of his pocket and swings it around by the chain, “Catch!”

It arcs through the air and lands squarely in Martin’s palm. His hand clasps around it with a soft searing noise. Martin winces and tucks it into his jeans, shaking the burn off his hand once he’s let it go.

“Thanks Tim!” But Tim’s already gone. He snaps his head around to Jon.

It is at this point that Jon resigns his fate. Barely awake for a month and yet his end has come. He shields his face; a reflex he knows won’t save him now, but he can’t help but hide where he’s hurt. This man he barely knows is now going to stomp his crumpled form into the curb, he’s sure.

But two plush hands gently encircle his wrists. A soft “hey hey” encourages him to open his clamped up eyes. Brown eyes sparkle down upon him, a soft orange ebbs from the edge of his pupils.

“I told you not to mess with him...” he huffs. His hands leave Jon’s wrists to instead pull the bits of glasses off of his face, “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

“Why...?” Leaves Jon breathlessly. Martin picks at the glass embedded in his skin and Jon notices that his fingernails are ever so slightly pointed. He also notices that they’re painted. A deep purple. A color reserved for royalty.

“Well, he said take care of you. Can’t really go against his orders, I suppose.” When the bits refuse to give, he instead scoops an arm underneath Jon and pulls him to his feet. The world is blurry without his bifocals, spinning too. “Which one of these is your building?”

Jon coughs, “I do not reside here, of course...” it’s an embarrassing admission after everything that’s happened, but he still has his pride, “Why would I? London is wretched busy during the night.”

“Hmm...” Martin rubs his chin, “I guess I’ll just have to take you to my den...”

* * *

It’s a while’s walk to Martin’s home. Usually Martin would take a bus, he explains, but with Jon looking the way he is, it’s better not to draw too much attention. The weakness in Jon makes every step feel terrible, but Martin’s small talk keeps him distracted enough. He pesters Jon about things like how old he is, where he lives, and how he likes modern London (218, a cave, it’s complicated) until eventually they come upon the aforementioned home.

It’s an unassuming place. Two stories plus, perhaps, a basement, what with the cellar doors on the side. It looks like most of the other houses on the street with plastic siding, splotchy grass, and porches with spray painted Adirondack chairs. The one thing that sets this house apart from the rest on the street is the lights shining from the windows when it’s 3 in the morning.

As the door opens, Jon is utterly assaulted by that animalistic smell Martin gives off. The house is alight with activity: some people watching TV, some wrestling in the corner, some lifting weights. All of them pause and snap their heads towards the two of them when Martin steps through the threshold.

Jon is stuck outside the doorway. Everyone seems to pipe up a chorus of “Martin?” as they eye him down. An awkward laugh shutters out of him, going so far as to tugs at Jon to try to get him through the door. He just stands stuck to the porch, shrinking in on himself.

A woman with blonde cropped hair sees to the commotion at the door. She’s ridiculously tall and covered in scars. Her arms cross over her dirty tank-top as she gives Jon an icy glare, even colder than his empty veins. She must be bigger than an average person, “Martin, who’s this?”

“Oh boy Daisy, it’s been a whole night.” He wipes some of the sweat off his neck, “I can explain, serious! Th-There was, uh, a fight, a-and, you know, help people! Right? But, oh god—"

She puts a hand on his shoulder, “Hush, pup, I’m not mad.” Though her lip doesn’t turn from the straight line it’s in, Martin seems to relax, “I can smell how weak he is. He won’t be able to hurt anybody here. You can invite him in.”

Jon is a little bristled by the comments on his constitution, but Martin seems shocked out of his place, “Oh my gosh, I forgot about that! Jon, Jon, you’re welcome to come inside!” And with that, Jon finally steps past the threshold of the door. 

Martin ushers him up the stairs quickly, ignoring the shameless stares and chiding chuckles. They tuck themselves into a room packed with junk; stacks of mismatched items tickle the ceiling, threatening to fall over. Martin digs through the piles until he finds a pair of tweezers. Glass time.

“Hold very still...” Martin closes in with the tweezers, gently pulling the tiny shards from his face. It feels cold, like small pieces of ice. Within a few moments with his deft hands, Martin retrieves all of the remaining shards. “There! All done.” The skin under his eye stretches and compresses as Jon blinks. He feels no more pieces of intrusion trying to worm their way into his body. A light brush of his fingertips agitates the little holes left behind.

Martin wrinkles his nose, "Shouldn’t... those be closing up?"

"Does the body not take time to heal?" He scorns.

But Martin shrugs, "Not for me. And I thought not for you too. You know, vampire powers and all that." An uneasy feeling creeps over him, not for the first time this evening. This is too comfortable, too _nice_ , to not be some elaborate scheme to try and finish him while his back was turned. He knew that tactic well. He’s just been putzing around with Martin without considering any options of escape. The fatigue has been so powerful, he didn’t even think to consider it. Consider who his potential enemy could even be. Is he weird human? Is he undead? Is he just right in Martin’s trap?

He forces the saliva in his mouth down, “Martin... what are you?”

Martin frowns, “Jon, I know you’re old and all, so I know you’re not up to date with social mores, but it’s really rude to ask a person what ethnicity they are. I was born on the isles, okay?”

“What? No.” He shakes his head, “You think me daft? I meant, what ARE you? You are not a vampire, no, but clearly you are not human.”

“Ohhhhh” A laugh bubbles out of him, “Sorry, I just thought it was obvious? You know, the teeth and nails, the nocturnality, the _pack_ , the SMELL— I know we smell, because you smell.”

They stare at each other. Jon is utterly lost at what Martin is trying to get at, and it’s making the air in the room thicken. He hopes the pleading for answers in his eyes is enough to communicate his confusion without having to go through the mortifying ordeal of admitting it out loud. The softening of Martin’s face is reassuring, and he gives a little sigh.

“We’re werewolves, Jon.”

* * *

Books. Martin digs out old dusty tomes from the stacks of junk piled up in the various rooms; Jon is grateful to finally have a straightforward source of information. It’s difficult to read without his bifocals, but Martin managed to dig out a magnifying glass from the hoard as well.

When Jon was turned, his sire must have put him to sleep somehow. His memories from before his slumber are blurry at best and gone at worst. Loved ones, childhood, career, all gone. Why he woke up now, he didn’t know, but he was hurled headfirst into two worlds he didn’t understand.

While Jon is busy with his bestiary, Martin is entranced with the handheld slab that gives off light. He’s seen these things everywhere; everyone had one.

“What is that.” He snaps when the curiosity overtakes him. Martin jolts from where he’s sitting against a pile of board games and one falls, clattering pieces all over the floor. The mess doesn’t bother Martin.

“What is what? This?” He totters the device in his hand, “It’s a cellphone. Um... it lets you talk to anyone else who has one, even if they’re far away.”

“Fascinating...” 

“And watch this.” Martin holds up the phone towards Jon. He’s not sure what Martin is doing and is suddenly blinded by a bright light. He feels attacked and betrayed until Martin innocuously turns the face of the phone to him with a “Look!”

“Is that... me?” He jerks the phone out of Martin’s hands and thoroughly examines his picture. It’s more accurate than a portrait could ever be and even more clear than a mirror. His brown skin is sickly ashy and the small holes under his eye cause a wave of nausea roll over him. But it’s not enough to shake him from the euphoria of seeing himself after so long.

Martin takes the phone back (Jon almost cries) and smushes himself against Jon’s side. He holds the phone up in front of them and Jon can see the small picture of them on the phone, changing in real-time as he moves around. Magic is real!

“Say cheese.” Martin smiles. Jon isn’t assaulted by a bright light this time and he’s grateful for that. Martin shows the picture of them together: Martin a photo natural and Jon staring completely dumbfounded, mouth hanging open.

Suddenly there’s a commotion downstairs. There had already been a lot of banging and running, but this noise was organized.

Martin looks at something on his phone and his eyes go wide, “Oh dear, sun is rising soon.” He rises to his feet, holding out a hand for Jon, “I’m afraid you might have to stay the night.”

Jon takes the hand, surprised by how calloused it is. In the evening they’ve spent together, Martin has shown how tender and sweet he is. Jon cannot imagine what sort of activity he could do to roughen his palms this way. But however gentle, there was still a beast hiding just beneath his skin.

Or so he assumed, he wasn’t hip to how werewolves worked. “Oh, no, I would hate to be a bother.”

“There’s no way you could get to your cave before the sun rises.” The way his eyes sparkle has Jon convinced that maybe Martin is the one with hypnosis, “It’s not a problem, really.”

“If you are certain...” he expects Martin in his excitement to lead him to a guest bedroom down the hall or maybe a linen closet for fresh sheets. Instead, they immediately go downstairs. The roughhousing and ruckus from earlier is gone, replaced with all the household members shuffling plush mats around on the floor, interlocking next to each other like puzzle pieces.

Martin hurriedly retrieves two mats from the closet under the stairs, stuffing one into Jon’s hands before joining the pack on the floor. Once again Jon feels the world crashing down upon him. There was no bed in that junk room. Perhaps all of the rooms up there are junk rooms. These people sleep in a pile on the floor!

He sleeps on the floor in his cave though... Not that he had much of a choice, as it is just a nook in a cliff face he found was hidden enough to keep him safe during the day. And the mat was rather plush, almost like a thicker comforter. More comfortable than rocks could ever be.

He decides to set the mat on the floor where he’s standing, a few feet away from the pack. It’s not like he knows these people anyway. This is the polite thing to do.

“Jon, you’re too far away.” Martin informs him. 

“I believe that I am the perfect distance away, thank you.”

“Come on.” There’s a pleading in his eyes, “Part of werewolf customs is sleeping as a group. It’s _rude_ to try to other yourself. No one wants a lone wolf.” The rest of the werewolves seem to agree with this sentiment, or at least stare down Jon in an attempt to pressure him into going along with it.

Jon groans. He cedes to the pack, scooting up close to Martin, arms and legs tucked under his body. They all seem satisfied, rolling over onto their backs and sides, body parts overlapping between mats. A hedonistic sight if he’d ever seen one; no one with couth would touch another so lackadaisically in the public eye. Society has certainly regressed while he was away.

It’s then that Martin tucks an arm around him and he’s overcome by a cozy warmth that sucks all the air out of the room. His instinct is to kick and scream, but the overwhelming security - a padlock on a safe - shuts down all of his higher functions. All the posh men shaking hands with cotton gloves were desperately trying to avoid connecting to another man, he supposes, bare hand pressed against Martin’s lush, hairy arm. He’s not scared of what might happen when he gives in to the vulnerability of sleep tonight.

“You’re so cold...” Martin hums, almost barely words as he presses ever so deeply into his bed mat. The morning sun only peeks out from the tops of the curtains. Soft orange threatens them on the ceiling, held at bay only by the thick fabric.

Jon stifles a yawn, “I’m dead.” He closes his eyes.

* * *

“Tim said that this place has lots of books.” Martin guides them swiftly down the block. Jon has to go pretty fast to match Martin’s pace, what with the height difference, but is just as eager to reach the destination.

After picking through the meager offerings of tomes Martin had around the pack house in a matter of days, Jon was hungry for more knowledge. This world he’s been dropped into was such a mystery; any shred of information kept him afloat when he was uncertain. Martin has been such a gracious host, too. Jon wouldn’t dare talk to Tim after what happened in the alley.

“You are quite brave, talking to him.” He picks up his pace.

“Oh! No, no, not brave.” Martin laughs, “Tim is nice when you get to know him. He’s just trying to look out for everyone, you know? There’s a lot of creeps lurking around London.”

“Such as myself.”

Martin pauses in his tracks, causing Jon to slam into his backside. He doesn’t notice or care, just turning back to address Jon, “Come on, Tim just didn’t know you. I’m sure that if he spent time with you like I have, he’d see you're not a bad guy! He just needs warming up. Just like you.”

Jon can’t help but feel embarrassed by the sincerity, but he maintains a frown, “My corpse needs more than just warming up.”

“Funny.” And with that Martin turns back to lead them to their destination. Martin hasn’t given a lot of specifics about where they’re headed, only vague information like “it was a research facility” and “anything supernatural we’ll need is there”. It’s promising, sure, but Jon can’t help but feel something might be off.

It’s not until Martin proclaims, “We’re here!” that Jon is ensured his feelings were true.

“Martin... is this some sort of jape? An attempt to trick an old man?” Before him is what appears to be the ruins of an old structure. Piles of ash bury any cracked boards that survived an apparent fire. Chunks of marble stonework stick up from the dead grass like grave markers. The only thing that remains intact is a giant door with a large metalwork logo of an owl on it, haphazardly thrown over a hole in the ground. Jon looks to Martin with a frown.

“This is what’s left of the Magnus Institute.” Martin approaches the door and lifts it with ease, “Had an arsonist attack or something. Tim said there’s tons of books preserved down in the archives.”

“Magnus Institute...” his nostrils flare at the name. There’s a memory curled up on itself in the depths of his brain, but he can’t quite pull it to the surface. For now, he ignores it, entering the pit with Martin following behind.

The stairs leading down are concrete; they must’ve been the only things left behind after the fire. Jon’s thankful for the night vision he has been granted via his vampirism, as the chasm they enter is completely dark otherwise. There’s a strange smell in the air: wet metal, raw meat, old books, and decay. Entirely unpleasant. Jon stays close to Martin, even the smell of wet dog (that he refuses to admit he’s gotten quite used to and may actually _enjoy_ ) is better than the chaotic taint in the air.

Their footsteps echo through the stone halls. Eeriness numbs their fingertips. The air is still smoggy from the fire that burned it down somehow. Something is off.

“Why do they keep this all here? Why not just destroy what is left?” Jon asks. Anything to break the tension he can smell radiating off of Martin. 

They stop when they find a bookshelf, but find it to be empty, “I think it’s historic? A committee from who knows where gets to decide what happens to it.” He wipes a finger across the shelf and finds his finger covered in dust, “They could rebuild it, I guess.”

“Aye, they could.” Jon continues on towards where he feels a breeze, “Do you think that, perhaps, Tim may have lied to you?”

Martin whimpers in response, “Jon, I have a confession...” They both stop in their tracks. Jon looks expectantly. If Martin had a tail - and who’s to say he doesn’t have one hidden away - it’d certainly be tucked between his legs. So he takes a breath before speaking, “Tim told me, very sternly, not to come here. He said it was _super_ dangerous.”

And Jon sighs, “I suppose I can smell something in the air... But what does Tim know, hm? He is just a human.” He begins walking again, “We are supernatural, we can handle ourselves.”

“You have a point...” Martin reluctantly returns to his side, “But... Tim’s built different. He kills things all the time. Don’t you think he’d understand the danger levels better than anyone else?”

Jon ignores him in favor of a nearby bookshelf, this one actually containing books! It’s a mixture of ratty old things and crisp ones that look like they’ve never even been opened before. The shelves are only half full. “Now this is promising. A treasure trove must be nearby.”

“Can’t we just pick some from here and go?” Once again Jon ignores him and continues on, the heels of his boots clicking down the hall. Martin would be damned to be left behind now.

It’s not until he crosses the threshold of the next doorway that his whole body prickles. A sudden, dizzying feeling of being watched shoots through his chest like an arrow bolt. He scans the room, eyes landing on the mass of pale flesh clustered on the ceiling. It undulates minutely, occasionally dripping a foamy white substance.

Jon and Martin are both frozen in the doorway, acutely aware of the vile clump. Jon’s eyes dart between the mass and several bookshelves filled with what must be the most supreme books in all these dusty tunnels. Martin, on the other hand, is frozen on the mass, its eyes now turning to gaze warningly upon the pair. He, achingly slowly, placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder, gently tugging. 

They were not on the same page.

All he was able to get out was a whisper soft, “Jon—“ before said man darts across the room towards the bookshelf. 

The clumps on the ceiling scatter in a flash. Jon is too busy shoveling as many books as he can into his spindly arms to notice the commotion at first. When he whips around, he’s face to face with one of the creatures. It’s all flesh, webbed in places where joints curl over each other, forcing the grotesque thing to hunch over. Its jagged teeth fail to hold back the rabid slime in its mouth. The thing’s completely black eyes are trained on Jon, backed up against the wall.

Familiarity fills Jon with a well of sadness. There’s hostility and grief overwhelming any other smell in the room. All he can do is turn and run, shoes barely gaining traction against the slick floors. There’s a grisly snapping of bone before he’s swiped at from behind. Claws dig through his skin, erupting in streaks of pain without the healing balm of blood. 

He has to get out with these books. Even as he stumbles to his knees, he only lets a single book slip before finally regrouping with Martin in the doorway. He’s frozen, so Jon rams him with his shoulder to get him moving again. The pair dart down the hallway, hissing and shrieking following close behind. Martin lets out a panicked cry when one of them swipes its claws near his face, and in that panic he swiftly turns down a hallway without Jon realizing.

By the time Jon does realize that Martin is gone, he’s hit a dead end. He can’t say he noticed how much of a maze it was down here when they came down, but he does regret not paying attention. Luckily, only one of those vile creatures had managed to follow him down here. He could just drop his books and use his own sharp claws to fell it.

But as the creature gets close, as its diseased slobber drips down onto Jon’s hands, tears well in his eyes. His whole body is frozen over in sorrow, drowning him in its icy depths. This beast's pallid face was beyond recognition, something Jon would find reasonable to be afraid of, to hate even, but tears bubble out of him even as the thing readies to tear his head from his neck.

“I’m sorry.” He weeps, not really sure why he’s saying it, but it gushes from his lips nonetheless, “I’m so sorry...”

It’s then that the creature is torn away from him. An even bigger beast thrashes it against the concrete walls, snarling wildly. Jon has to squint to see that this hairy thing is actually Martin, puffed up and pointed in a way he’d never seen. He watches helplessly as Martin tears the thing to shreds. He drops the lifeless mass on the ground once it’s all over and turns to Jon with his blown out yellow eyes. When he blinks they return to his normal, beautiful brown. The fur on his arms thin out as he totters over to Jon and pulls him into an embrace. Jon’s shutters through his tears.

“Jon, Jon, let’s get out of here.” He pulls Jon in a direction. They quickly file out of the tunnels and back into the cool air of the night. He’s shaking badly, but Jon is able to pull himself onto the pavement and sit cross legged while Martin seals the door back over the entrance. The books jumble in his lap. Rough covers and cracked spines. He’s so focused on them he barely hears Martin rambling behind him. 

“I am so sorry. I really thought you were behind me. I turned a corner and suddenly you were—“ His hands are immediately on Jon’s back, “Christ Jon, they got you real bad.”

He jerks away from Martin’s touch, “I will be well.” He tries his best to adjust his sweater vest to cover the large gashes across his back, but is unsuccessful.

“Are you sure?”

He turns to Martin, tired eyes regarding the concern on his face, “Let’s go— ...Let’s just go...” The word home lingers in his throat.

* * *

Jon waits at what Martin purports is Tim’s address. He admits that he’s incredibly nervous; he’d never experienced such a violent encounter like the one with him ever in his life. To feel so utterly powerless and small... He’d never see Tim again if he could help it, but...

The books he had obtained from the archives left him with more questions than answers. A few of them were just more bestiaries about obscure supernatural creatures. But the others were books written in a runic language, one he shouldn’t understand. But he did understand, very clearly understood. Martin was shocked to find that Jon could make out the meaning of the symbols. A Spellcaster’s Early History, it was titled, and details the creation of Spellbound, the runic language, and its early usage. They are simple spells like Create Fire and Cleanse Water. Things he only vaguely remembers learning some time ago. Any memory, at this point, is important.

Martin and his pack were clearly out of their depth here, so Jon had to turn to someone he believes to be more knowledgeable in the occult. So he waits in front of Tim’s flat, hoping that he’d go out this evening. There’s no denying the creepiness of it all. He tries his best to be casual and relax on the steps, but he’s acutely aware that if Tim does exit, there might be another altercation.

Eventually the door opens and out comes Timothy Stoker. Jon jumps to his feet and guards his face.

“You?!” He growls, his hand magnetic to his hip, “What the bloody hell are you doing here!?”

“Timothy, Mr. Stoker, please...” Jon stumbles back off of the stairs.

“Ick. Don’t call me that, it’s weird!” He shakes his head, “You should be dead. Martin should’ve taken care of you!” He pauses, blinks, and then his shoulder droop, “Gahh, that marshmallow of a man actually _took care of you_ , didn’t he?”

“He has been quite accommodating of my needs…” His new clothes and spectacles being tangible proof of Martin's care, “for why, I am not certain...”

“He’s a sap is why.” He massages his brow, “So you must be the guest he’s been talking about. What the hell do you want anyway?”

Jon kneels at Tim’s feet, hands grasped together, “Tim, I need your help.”

“Jesus, don’t do this.”

“We found books, down in the archives.”

Tim throws his hands in the air, “You went to the archives? I can’t believe this. I told him not to go there!”

“Do you know what Spellbound is?”

At that, Tim pauses. It seems for the first time in this conversation Tim has removed his hand from the stake on his hip, instead choosing to cross his arms. Small victories. “I know of it. Can’t say I can read it, that takes a special talent.”

“I need to know... everything.” Jon’s so close to leaning over and kissing Tim’s feet if he has to. Tim just sighs and walks down the stairs past him. He then turns to the flower beds next to the house, kicking a few rocks on the pavement away before crouching among the rainbow of plants. Jon leans over the stair railing to watch.

“This...” he picks one of the purple flowers, petals curling in on itself, “Is wolfsbane. You gotta be careful with these little buggers, they are a bane to _a lot_ more than wolves.” He picks a small yellow flower off of a bunch, “This is Saint John’s Wort, keeps evil spirits away. We’ve got sage, Angelica, marigolds, mandrakes. Hell, we’ve even got trees in the back. _You_ should be especially careful about those.”

They lock eyes. If Tim were any other human, he’d think twice about looking a vampire right in the eye. But Tim’s different. He stands upright, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, “I’ve got information. Trevor and Julia have even more. But I can’t just give it to you.” He flashes his teeth in a smile Jon’s swears sparkle even in the low light, “What’s in it for me?”

Jon shuffles his feet, “What is it you desire?”

Tim whistles, “Jon-a-than! That is what I like to hear!” He hooks his arm around Jon’s neck, pulling him in close and shaking him around, “You wanna know what I want? More than anything else right now?”

Jon shrugs, “Aye?”

“I just HAVE to see a wolf pack on the full moon!”

“No!”

The pair jolt at the shrill squeak, but Tim laughs it off, “Oh Martin! Come out from where you’re hiding!” Lo and behold, Martin comes out from behind a nearby corner, cheeks red and eyes trained on the ground.

“Martin?” Jon pretends to be irritated, but he’s secretly glad Martin’s here to save him again, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I was just worried you’d get hurt again...” he twiddles his thumbs before gaining courage again, “But Tim! I told you, you can’t come! It’s too dangerous.”

“And I told you not to go to the archives, yet you took Count Loser there with you anyway.” They lock each other in a glare. Jon is very uncomfortable in Tim’s headlock.

“Still... the only human allowed is Basira, and that’s because she’s in control. The pack doesn’t know your smell, they could mistake you for prey.”

“But... they are acclimated to my smell?” Jon offers, “I could look after him.”

“Jon!” Tim shrieks and pulls him into a hug, “You’re rocking my world right now!!”

“Jon, are you sure?” Martin grimaces, “You haven’t even been looking after yourself....”

“I need to know. I will pay any price.”

Tim shoves Jon over to Martin. He does a silly little victory dance before shooting finger guns at the pair, “Alright! I’ll see you two lovebirds on the full moon. I’m gonna go kill something!!” And with that, he runs off.

Martin sighs, “I hope you’re aware of what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Jon sighs too, “I cannot say I am...”

* * *

Motorcycles are loud. Motorcycles are fast. Motorcycles are terrifying. Jon clings to Tim for dear life as they make their way down the London streets to some far away stretch of woods. They follow, as inconspicuously as they can, a van that contains tonight’s subjects. 

Eventually the roads turn to dirt, so the pair go from motorcycle to foot. Jon is immensely grateful to be back on his feet. They hike up the trail, vigilant in case the hunt has already begun, until they spot the van, backed up into a small clearing.

The pair scale a nearby tree and perch on a branch as Basira makes her way to the back of the van. She looks like a gym teacher in her basketball shorts over compression leggings, writing things down on a clipboard as she chews a long metal whistle. Jon can’t imagine how the whole pack could fit in the van; he didn’t see it happen because they had to file in before the moon came out and he was still safely sleeping inside. He does recall the waterlogged bench seats abandoned in the backyard, so they obviously make it work. The van shakes every now and again.

Tim is oozing the scent of excitement next to him. He tries to ignore it in favor of taking in as much information as possible. He’s not sure if he’ll get this opportunity ever again.

Once Basira seems satisfied with her clipboard, she tucks it under her arm and approaches the van door. She takes a deep breath and Tim does the same next to him. She gets a firm grip of the handle and steps aside as she pulls the door open.

Out pours a hurricane of gray fur and sharp edges. The pack stumbles over itself as it rushes into the clearing, wrestling each other as they are wont to do, showing affection through nipping and shoving. These creatures they’ve morphed into are wolf-like, for sure, but stand bipedal and hunched over. Their faces contain an unnerving touch of human mixed into the otherwise wolf snout and jaw, teeth longer and more jagged than they are when at rest.

“Huh. They’re wearing clothes.” Tim comments, unable to take his eyes away from the bumbling pack, “Those must be huge on them normally.”

Basira blows her whistle and the whole pack jolts to attention. Jon even reacts to the high frequency rattling his eardrums; Tim shoots him a dirty look for being distracting. One werewolf, notably larger than the rest, shuffles up to the front next to Basira to address the werecrowd. Her fur sports a unique pattern on her back where a thick scar caused the fur to grow in a starburst. That must be Daisy. She doesn’t make any sound, but the crowd bows their head in reverence for a few long minutes, listening to a silent sermon. 

“Alphas have a telepathic connection with the pack.” Tim notes aloud, “She’s probably telling them the game plan.”

“Fascinating...” the silence is finally broken when Daisy starts howling. The whole pack joins along. Their song vibrates through the trunks of the trees, shaking their branches. After the howl reaches its conclusion, the werewolves take off in all different directions into the forest.

“Ugh, Jon! We have to head after them!” Tim bounces up and down on the branch they’re sharing, “What good is watching if they’re gonna do stuff where we can’t see??”

“What is it you propose I do about that?” It was Jon’s turn to shoot a dirty look. He wasn’t given the satisfaction of a response because as soon as the words leave his mouth Tim is rearing back, launching himself from their current branch over to the next tree nearby. Jon’s a little shocked by how nimble he is in that bulky coat and chunky boots, but he doesn’t have time to think about it as Tim is already bounding to the next tree.

This is easy for Jon. His vampirism grants him the boon of super strength, allowing him to just simply jump tree to tree. It’s a little hard on his ankles, but he’ll get over it. He catches up to Tim, perched in the brush of a dense tree, peaking through the leaves.

There is a doe gently grazing. Its muscles are taught and eyes are wide open, like it’s prepared for a predator to come take it while it eats. Feed on the feeding. Jon smells it: the nutty smell of hunt, tender on his tongue. He grasps Tim by the chin and turns him towards the source of the smell. A beast lingers in the bushes, waiting for the moment of weakness best to pounce on.

There it is. A gentle reposition. Nearby weeds dangling into the glassy eyes forcing them to close. The wolf launches to action and the doe has no chance to get away. No chance to act. Not even a chance to fight. The wolf pins it to the grassy floor, sinking in its thick dark claws before its jagged yellow teeth. The deer hardly makes a sound. The wolf does that for it. Gruesome tearing echoes among the trees. The wolf gobbles down as much of the chunks of meat as it can fit in its mouth, snapping bones.

Tim stares. Jon stares. Mouths both agape. Jon almost salivates as the blood spatters against the dirt, turning into tiny globs of dark mud. He hasn’t fed in a while...

Once the wolf gets its fill of venison, it abandons the carcass to find some other hapless deer to stalk. The duo are snapped out of their trance once the werewolf is out of sight. Tim shoots Jon a look - not of annoyance this time - and Jon can nearly see his heartbeat pound heavily through the artery on his neck. It would be so easy to just lean over and puncture and suck— but Tim is already hopping to the next tree to go follow the wolf, not even leaving time for Jon to chastise himself for thinking such perverse thoughts.

These woods are part of protected land. Martin had explained that their pack had made a deal with the local authorities that they would control the deer population - which were overgrowing the thresholds of healthy numbers, as they are wont to do - in a discrete way. They would’ve said no, they had government contractors for that, but they couldn’t pass up such an offer for _free_. As long as they log a population control charter once a month, they have free reign of the private, protected woods.

To promote biodiversity, the authorities plant trees. They plant at different intervals. Some trees are younger than other trees. The tree Tim jumps to happens to be one of those younger trees. The branches aren’t grown enough to hold his weight, so, it snaps. When he falls, he lands on his back with an “oomf”.

The wolf they had been following pauses. It sniffs around a bit and Tim bites his fist hoping that the thing doesn’t notice what just happened. But of course, the senses of a werewolf are sharp.

It turns towards him. It growls and hunches over, not readying to hunt, but to protect its territory. Jon waits for something to happen: for Tim to get up and defend himself or run, but the wolf has started running towards him and he hasn’t even moved to breathe. He said he could handle himself, so what is he doing?? The wolf is getting closer now and Tim hasn’t done a damn thing.

So Jon takes action, he jumps down and grabs Tim in armfuls before throwing him like an inexperienced bowler.

In exchange for Tim’s body, Jon gets slammed into by the wolf. He makes contact with a nearby tree and feels two ribs snap, _pop pop_ , on one side. The werewolf, nearly double his size, pins him to the tree, his human-wolf hybrid claws tearing at the bark. Slobber flies from its mouth to coat Jon’s face as it growls. Martin’s not going to save him this time...

Except the creature takes a moment to sniff him again, gingerly near his neck. It pulls back, no longer looming over him. It has totally softened up: no growling, no claws, no teeth. It pants and wags its tail around like an excitable puppy.

It leans forward and licks a generous stripe up the side of Jon’s face. “Alright alright, I understand, you are happy to be in my presence.” He’s never been a fan of dogs; it’s amazing he’s hung out this long around people who are dog adjacent. Jon takes a deep breath of the smell emanating off this wolf and finds that it is intensely familiar. Sure, it’s got the tang of blood and stink of sweat, but it’s undeniably—

“Martin?”

The werewolf does a little dance in place. Of course it’s Martin, he should’ve known. There’s a soft pudge protecting the thick braids of muscle, unlike the other wolves who are obsessed with sculpting their bodies. And even though there’s a pale yellow trying to swallow up his irises, his lovely brown still fights to stick around on the outer edge. Even his eye structure retains some of the almond shape. 

“I am glad we got in trouble with only you around.” He can’t help but give him a scratch between his ears, “But you were quite mean to Tim, you should apologize.” When he looks over to where had thrown Tim he finds nothing but an empty space. But a nearby tree provides the man, bug-eyed staring at the interaction between wolf and man. Martin’s pointed ears flatten on his head and he whimpers.

_“I’m still totally in there.”_ He had told them a few days before, _“I’m just really hungry. No, not just hungry, hangry, like I need a Snickers or two. Takes a lot of energy to stay like that, you know? It can make you get a one track mind of hunt and eat.”_

Jon tries to stand, but the broken ribs send a sharp pain through his body. Martin helps him up by his collar with one hand and cradles him on one of the few parts of his torso that isn’t damaged. Together they approach the tree with Tim in it.

“You look like shit.” Tim’s clinging to a branch for dear life. Martin gives a little growl at his remark and Tim jumps a little.

Jon sighs, “Not much I can do about that at this moment.”

“Jon.” Tim is almost laughing, “What are you talking about? Just go with Martin.”

“What?”

“They’re hunting, you idiot. Why don’t you just get in on it?” His dark brown eyes are piercing, “Blood is blood. I’d rather you suck a few deer dry instead of attacking people in alleyways.”

He’d never considered that, he didn’t know why, “But what about you?”

“I’ll stay here, promise. No more watching.” He smiles, “Just come get me when you’re done.” Jon looks up to Martin for some sort of confirmation that this arrangement is alright, but Martin is looking over at some bushes, ears perked to alert. He decided to just give Tim a nod before he and Martin go off to find his prey.

He’s felt so normal the past few weeks that had almost forgotten he’s not human anymore. The dull buzz of pain is blanketed by more important brain functions. It takes a moment to adjust into hunting mode: letting go of thought, sinking back to instinct, remembering the taste of blood. Oh how he misses the warmth of life in his dead veins... 

He smells a deer. A hearty buck with strong antlers branching out into infinity. It’s alert, eyes wide as it grazes, horizontal pupils trained on the area around them. Perfect, Jon thinks as he crawls out from the brush they were hiding in, dirt slipping up through the cracks between his fingers. He makes eye contact with the buck and lets it attempt to assert its dominance, rearing back ready to attack, before he asserts his. Memories of grassy knolls, does in heat, and gorey antler battles fill his head as he approaches the frozen buck. The king of the forest could have never expected an opponent like this.

After that, everything moves too fast. He’s jumping, ankles screaming when his heels dig into the ground, and knocking the giant animal down from its throne. It kicks around when Jon sinks in his fangs.

The blood floods in so fast that he can feel the heat burning through every vein in his body. His healing returns. The small holes under his eye that have itched incessantly are now filled and silent. The gashes across his back bubble up with fresh new flesh. His ribs snap back together with such force that he throws himself off the drained deer. Crackling all over his skin, the old cells rapidly being replaced, sends him into a fit of giggles. He’s never been so full!

Martin rolls around in the thin grass with him, obviously overjoyed at how happy Jon is. Dirt clouds puff up in the air. There’s a howling off in the distance, so Martin pauses his revelry to join in.

The meeting of howls reverberates through the trees, shaking the branches, a pleasant hum in Jon’s chest. He’s so blissed out that he decides to join too; his howl doesn’t have the same force behind it like the werewolves, but it resonates all the same, swirling right in with the other howls. It’s nice to feel like he’s part of a group, since he’s been alone for so long...

After the howling tapers out, Martin’s on the move again. The hunt must be over. Jon gives a wimpy wave and a quiet “goodbye...” as he’s leaving, and Martin stills in his tracks. He flips around and jumps Jon - his ankle twisting under the weight and actually _healing_ this time - and licks him like a child with a melting ice cream cone. After he’s thoroughly soaked him, he scampers off without any fanfare.

Jon sighs and goes out to gather Tim, still in the tree where they left him. They leave as quietly as they can until they’re out of the woods.

“Damn Jon.” Tim calls over the roar of the motorcycle, not so tightly grasped by Jon this time around, “You’re actually warm!” 

He drops Jon off at the packhouse. The van is parked in the driveway, some doors left ajar, engine rapidly cooling. When he enters, they’ve all already piled on the floor. It’s quiet, none of the normal jostling and scratching, just soft breaths huffing into the air. He notes that there’s even an empty mat next to Martin. He expected him to come home.

So how could he reject such a kind offer? He settles down onto his mat, the pain of open wounds a memory rather than a reality. The sun is slowly changing the dark of night to the red-orange of morning behind the blackout curtains. Martin, like clockwork, turns over and folds an arm over Jon’s middle. For a moment Jon worries he woke him, but a brief glance provides that Martin is deep asleep, movement driven only by diurnal instinct. The blood crusted to his cheeks and oversized tattered shirt shouldn’t be endearing. He shouldn’t be enamored by the drool starting to creep out from the corner of his mouth. Wet dog should never have become a comforting scent.

But it is. And he is. And it has. So Jon closes his eyes and chooses to sleep in the warm embrace of a wild animal trapped inside the skin of a gentle human.

* * *

“Buckle up, because this is gonna be rough and dirty.” Tim kicks back into a pile of torn up teddy bears. It’s not his first time in the packhouse, so he’s able to get himself comfortable. Martin is certainly mirroring that vibe, legs folded underneath him, but Jon...

He’s staring at Tim like his eyeballs are about to pop out of his sockets. Tim, sure he’s going to disappoint this evening, flashes him a weak smile, “So you wanted to know about Spellbound, right? Like I said, can’t read it. But let’s see what you’ve got.”

Jon pulls out the books he grabbed from the archives and lays them on the floor in front of Tim, “This one,” he points to an old book with a faded cover, “is A Spellcaster’s Early History. It recounts the beginning of creating spells and basic spells to draw from.”

Tim takes a moment to flip through the book, really only stopping to look at the pictures, “If you’ve got a history book here, what do you need from me?”

“The book addresses the reader as if they are already acquainted with spellcasting technique.” Jon flips to a page he has memorized, pointing out the line to Tim, “It says: ‘as you cast, always keep in touch with your Source’. But I am not familiar with what this might mean?”

“Ohhhh, I know this one!” His back straightens, “Spellcasters, y’know, like witches and wizards and stuff? They all draw power from a connection to living things. Being one with the universe and all that.”

Jon gives a thoughtful hum before Tim adds, “I don’t know if you were a spellcaster before, but your dead ass certainly isn’t connecting to nature anymore.”

It’s true, but it makes Jon deflate. The one thing that feels like a sure clue to his past and he can’t even connect to it anymore. Martin notices his change in demeanor, “Hey, come on Tim. Don’t be so harsh. I’m sure you could do plenty magic, Jon.” The reassuring hand on his shoulder doesn’t do its job.

“Regardless of whether or not I am still capable,” Jon brushes Martin’s hand off, but still gives him a small grateful head tilt, “I think it would be wise to learn as much as possible. Would you know any spellcasters to whom I could talk?”

Tim bristles. His mood completely changes from eager to share to closed off, his arms folded across his chest and eyes looking off into space, “Used to.”

“Oh. I apologize if I crossed a boundary...”

“No, no, it’s stupid.” He shakes his head, “I should be able to talk about this stuff, I’m a hunter! Do you know how many creatures of the night I’ve destroyed with my bare hands?”

“I could not imagine.”

They expect Tim to continue, but he pauses in his tracks. Something ponderous glosses over his eyes as he nibbles at his thumb. It’s a little uncomfortable watching him totally check out of the conversation. Martin and Jon glance at each other, Martin only shrugging. He returns soon enough.

His eyes dart to Jon, “You could just look.”

“Pardon!?"

“Just use your vampire mind reading powers!” Tim’s ostensibly back to normal, even if Jon can still see the tension in his throat when he talks. At least he’s pretending to be alright, “Not like you’ve shied away from such a thing before...”

“Are you sure?” Martin buts in.

“What’s he gonna do? Bite me?” He shakes his head, “It’s fine. We’re just sitting here, chilling out, I’ll think really hard about my experience with spellcasting, you have a wee looksie, and it’ll all be cool and chill. Eh?”

Jon wants to refuse, remembering what happened last time. He doesn’t want to anger Tim by going too far, not to mention he’s never used it outside of the context of hunting. But the information he needs... the desire is far too strong. “Fine then. I will hypnotize you and read your thoughts.”

“Alright.” Tim sits forward on his knees, eyes wide for Jon. Jon sits up too, consciously straightening his back with a few pops of his vertebrae.

They lock eyes. With concentration, his eyes glow a ghoulish green and create a link to Tim’s mind. Tim hunches, body limp and ready to be directed. Images of the various bobbles around the room enter Jon’s thoughts; obviously the last thing Tim was thinking about before being put under. Jon takes a breath, “Timothy Stoker, show me all you know about spellcasters.” Tim shoots up to alert, and a scene plays behind Jon’s eyes...

_ >There’s a boy _. Jon would think it’s a version of Tim when he was younger if there weren’t something too terribly different about this boy that set him apart. He’s reading a book, and Jon faintly sees the Spellbound on the pages. The boy’s eyes are glued to the pages, turning them hurriedly when he finishes a page. 

A heavy sigh comes from somewhere Jon can’t see, “That book is just garbage, just put it back where you found it.” He realizes the sound is coming from where he is watching from, the view through Tim’s eyes.

The boy keeps reading, absentmindedly putting a chip in his mouth, smearing ketchup on the corner of his lip where he nearly missed. It takes Tim shaking his shoulder with an exasperated “Danny!!” to break him from his trance.

Danny shakes himself awake, before giving Tim a cocky grin, “Don’t be jealous because you can’t read it.”

“I’m not jealous.” Tim pouts, “It’s all just made up shite anyway. Even if it is in a weird language, it’s not real.”

“It is SO real. Watch, uh...” Danny flips back through the book until he stumbles upon what he’s looking for, “Ah-ha!”

He kneels down onto the grass of their backyard. It’s patchy from lack of care, and the dirt instantly covers the knees of his jeans. But he carries on, constantly referencing the symbols in the book, drawing a small circle with his fingers. He places a pebble on the four cardinal points before looking up at Tim.

Tim looks at the circle, unimpressed, “Is that it?” When he looks back to Danny, his eyes are welling up. His instinct is to rush in and comfort him, but Danny flashes a small smile before letting his tears plop into the center of the circle. After he’s satisfied with the amount of tears, he sits cross legged and folds his hands.

“Gaia, mother of all,” there’s a faint hum under his words, and Tim’s not quite sure how Danny is doing it, “I ask of you a favor. We plant seeds in your earth to take part in the gift of life. As I have planted seeds of my essence, I wish for you to show the power of your gift.”

The ground shudders. Splinters form in the hard soil and thorny vines crawl out from the fissures. They weave and coil together in intricate patterns, boasting their ability. In the center, once the vines settle, grows a single soft purple flower. It’s rose-like, but the petals curl on each other more intimately.

Danny, careful of the thorns, plucks the flower and offers it to Tim, “Do you believe now?”

The scene peters out to black before showing a new one.

> _It’s a hole-in-the-wall pub with brick walls and tattered seats_. I’m front of Tim sits a woman with beautiful deep brown skin, the cornrows on her head, dabbled with a gold cuff every now and again, lead back to a curly poof of a ponytail. She holds a closed-lip smile, almost cocky, as she stares down Tim.

He can’t stop toying with his straw, “So you’re really a witch? Not just like a swim-under-the-full-moon-nude kind of witch, but like a legit one?”

“That’s right.” She sips her drink, “That’s not to say I wouldn’t do a little skinny dipping, moon status notwithstanding.”

Tim giggles, “Say more stuff like that and I’ll be under your spells.” He wiggles his fingers and makes an “oooo” sound and she laughs. “But seriously Sasha, you’re not jerking me around?”

"I swear on my life." She leans a cheek on her hand, ”Why does it matter anyway?"

He hesitates to answer, chews on his cheek. Like he’s afraid of rejection when they’re hitting it off so well. "The thing is... well." He clears his throat, covering it with a laugh, "We’ve had such a nice night, and you’re a very fun girl, but I’m afraid I have an... ulterior motive..."

"Oh, gosh, I didn’t know there even were chasers for witches..."

"No, no, nothing like that!" He groans, "You know Spellbound?"

Sasha perks at this. Her eyes go wide and she pushes herself up from the tabletop with her elbows, "Yeah, course I know Spellbound. Do you?"

"No, but my little brother does." He’s going to wear a hole through his cheek at this rate, "He’s been ducking his head into all these old places, trying to find ‘secret magicks’ or whatever. I’m just worried he’s going to get into things he’s not supposed to, you know? And I don’t know how to, like, push him in the right direction..."

"So you’re looking for a guide, then? You’re interviewing covens for your brother." She eases back down onto the table, "How sweet."

“Hey, if you’re offering.” 

The scene fades into a different scene with Sasha. 

> _Tim strides beside Sasha in her wheelchair_. They stroll down the block and prattle on about this and that, until Sasha pauses in front of the house Jon recognizes as Tim’s current residence.

“Oh wow, look!” She spins around and approaches the flowerbeds. Her fingers so delicately caress the buds and petals, they purr against her touch.

“Isn’t it a tad rude to rummage through peoples’ gardens?” Though he doesn’t try to stop her, just kneels down beside her. All of the different colors and shapes make an odd combination, but there’s a comforting aura lingering around the beds. There are no weeds or dead plants, even the few bugs just seem to be there for pollinating.

“This purple one is wolfsbane.” Her hands dart from plant to plant, “And these are Saint John’s Wort, excellent for warding off the big baddies. Oh! This is a lovely sage. Angelica, marigolds, mandrakes... What an incredible array! This must be a hunter’s house!”

“Hunter?” In the city?

She sits back up in her chair, “There are things scarier than witches lingering around. There are few people out here that try to keep the peace.”

“Huh.” His tongue idly fiddles in cups of his wisdom teeth as he assesses the hunter’s home. It’s quite normal, not much to indicate it’s anything other than a normal row home. To think there are people here fighting monsters is a joke.

“Well let’s not sit here and gawk.” Sasha breaks him from his thoughts, “We’ve got to check out this place Danny told us about.”

And the memory fades to black.

Jon waits for another memory, but finds nothing coming. Very well, he asked a specific question and he got his answer. But he can’t help but feel something is being withheld from him... Where are Danny and Sasha now? Why is Tim living at the hunter’s house?

Tim groans softly, Jon too focused to really internalize it. Instead he’s greeted with a flickering before another memory begins to play.

> _It’s so dark_. The space in front of him is lit up only by the light of his flashlight. He’s breathing heavily, hard enough to put pressure against his teeth. He keeps a hand on the wall hoping that when he finds everyone else, it’ll guide him back towards the exit.

“Danny!?” He calls out despite the inability to see, “Sasha! Girls?” How do you lose an entire coven? If only he hadn’t gotten distracted by the stupid statues, he would’ve noticed them gone on without him.

But he keeps on, his knuckles scraping against the walls, his voice scraping against his throat as he calls out over and over again. He’s not scared of the dark. He is scared of what could be waiting for him.

His fingers crumple a piece of paper taped to the wall, knocking it to the ground. He bends, knees creaking, and picks it up off the concrete floor.

It’s a flyer, yellowed with age. But... the date of the event - and he checks his phone to be sure - is today’s date. It reads “Fair Folk Big Top” in that classic font that he always thought was better suited for cowboys and the Wild West. Underneath the text, taking up the majority of the page, is a drawing of a clown. It ran to the edge of the uncanny valley and jumped right in. The features are pasted imprecisely on top of the form of the head, shaded in so the light cast was realistic, but at different angles on different areas. The lopsided eyes open past how real human eyes are generally able and look directly at you no matter how you bend the page. The mouth is frozen in the midst of a laughing fit, flecks of spittle flying out between the two stiff benches of teeth. Christening the bottom of the page is an address in plain black text.

Ignoring the shaking in his fingers, he types the address into his phone’s GPS. When it pulls up an empty lot, he nearly throws his phone in frustration. He opts to ball up the flyer in his hand and chuck it into the vast darkness. It skitters. To abate his faint curiosity, he flashes towards where the paper ball went to find the floor in front of him has another flyer. The position of the features are slightly different on each flyer. He walks a few steps to find more flyers, the layers of paper denser as he continues.

In a last ditch effort to retain his sanity, he kicks into the growing pile and launches some of the flyers into the air. He swears he sees them laugh at him as they slowly flutter back to the ground.

He turns and runs.

But the lot is not empty. There’s a tent like you’d expect at the big top, smoke billowing out from the opening. The knot twisting in his stomach tells him that this is wrong, this will end badly, but his clunky boots trudge onward. The coven could be in there. His brother.

As he pushes aside the fabric flap, he tries to tell himself this is an elaborate joke. Witches are weird like this, they take things too far. He passes through a gap in the bleachers that leads to the central ring. The seats are filled with gnarled wood mannequins with crude faces drawn on. They spasm every now and again as if being buzzed with an electric shock. The center stage is filled with fog.

A spotlight shines down and cuts through the fog. The light illuminates the sweat covering every inch of his skin nicely. Encased in the spotlight appears to be another mannequin made of plastic wearing a ringmaster’s uniform. The plane of its face has been knocked in, and in it sits mismatching parts that squirm against each other. 

“Fae-dies and Fairer Folk!” The ringmaster calls out, mouth unmoving. The seated mannequins writhe erratically now. They cheer for the ringmaster, “Are you ready for a show!?”

They spin and flail, knocking some of their neighbors over in the process. The ringmaster seems pleased, “Wonderful! Because we have got a show just. For. You.” The finger it holds out is pointed directly at Tim. His nails dig into the ring’s edge as the ringmaster cartwheels out of it, its joints grinding over each other with each curl of its body. The smoke blows in his face, forcing him to close his eyes and guard them with his hands. 

When he opens his eyes, the ring is filled with hoops and ladders and platforms and, most importantly, _girls_. Their bodies are ball jointed and a glazed white porcelain. They dance and jump and swing each other around, but wildly and out of sync. One girl takes a tumble and her arm shatters. They all shriek with laughter.

Nausea spreads in his stomach as he tries to get a good look at the girls. They’re vaguely familiar, but not to a degree in which he recognizes them. “H-Hey...” dies in his throat as the girls all flutter around the edge of the ring.

One gets way to close, “Timothy, are you enjoying the show?” Her head swivels around on her neck peg. The voice unfamiliar, the face unfamiliar, the body unfamiliar. This is just an apparition taunting him until she adds with a giggle: “Are you under my spells yet?”

It dawns on him with a force great enough to knock him off his feet. This is _Sasha_. They squished her features, changed her everything, and dangled her wrong body in front of his face. She bends over the barrier to laugh at him, tapping her finger against her cheek, the disgusting porcelain color of a toilet. 

She leaves only to link up with the rest of the misshapen coven. They huddle lamely, most of them now with cracked and shattered parts. Tim is still hoping that this is a bad, bad joke, and they’ll turn off their magic and return to normal and just go home. But the huddle spins and spins until they all pause and open up.

Out comes Danny in a lion suit. It would be cute if it weren’t for the fact his skin was hanging on his bones as if he forgot to zip it up all the way. It slaps against the dirt when he makes his way over on all fours. His fingers loosely grip the barrier, gloves of flesh not slipped on all the way. He smiles too deep behind his lips.

“Tim...” he whimpers despite the cheer on his face.

And that’s all it takes. Tim’s on his feet hightailing it out of the tent, tears blinding him as he runs off into the night. He doesn’t stop until the sun comes up.

Jon’s seen enough, he decides. Such a cruel scene is maybe not what he wanted to partake in. But as he goes to sever the psychic link, it won’t detach. He’s stuck in Tim’s mind.

More scenes flood his mind. Tim begging at the doorstep of the hunters’ home. An old man and woman young enough to be his daughter regard him with hesitation but let him in anyway. They teach him how to defend himself. How to fight for himself. He cries himself to sleep at night.

He fights his first beast. It knocks him around pretty bad before he’s able to land a finishing blow.

A killing blow. 

Blood on his hands. It comes in many colors. Sometimes it gets in his mouth if he’s unlucky. 

Kill.

Different creatures require different techniques to kill. Stakes, knives, silver, iron, beheading. Guts and rancor are par for the course. Never thought he’d get used to that.

Murder.

It’s not murder if they’re not human. Even if they do beg. Even if they do cry. Even if they do bleed. And do they bleed. Blood in many colors. God there’s so much blood...

Death.

Destruction.

Extinction.

Equilibrium.

Revenge.

Blood.

**Blood**

On my hands. 

God please somebody save me please I need help I need

Jon punches himself in the face.

It’s enough to startle him out of the psychic link, also startling Martin nearby who’s just playing on his phone, of all things. Reality is a little shaky, but when Jon feels steady again his attention is immediately turned to Tim. He’s shaking violently, hands cupped over his eyes. The breaths he draws in are shallow; he’s hyperventilating. Martin and Jon are stock stiff as they watch him unravel. 

“Dammit. God dammit.” He sobs out. Then suddenly he stills. Momentarily after, in one smooth motion, he hacks up his last meal in a pile onto the floor.

Martin springs to his feet, “Oh dear.” He puts his hands on Tim’s shoulders. When he jolts and almost rips himself away, a soft expression of pity overtakes Martin’s cheeks. “Come up love, let’s get you cleaned up.” Jon is astonished by the warmth and care that follows. Tim realizes it’s just Martin and lets his compromised body be led to standing. He hides his tear stained eyes with his hands, mumbling something. Martin gently shushes him, rubbing small circles in his back and uttering soft affirmations like “it’s okay” and “everything’s going to be alright” as he leads him out of the room.

Jon’s left behind. The spreading mass of vomit screams for his attention.

Soon enough Martin returns though, with a various cleaners, a plastic grocery bag, and a whole roll of paper towels. Jon hovers as Martin works on cleaning up the mess. He even becomes the dedicated paper towel holder.

“Jon, what happened?” He squirts some spray on the hardwood, “I’ve never seen him like that. Never even close to that.”

Jon nibbles his lip, “I may have dug a little too deep... Saw some wretchedly awful things...” Martin grabs another paper towel, “Something called a ‘Fair Folk Big Top’? But surely they are not really—“

This causes Martin to break his focus, “Are you serious? Tim’s encountered that sicko circus?? Bloody hell, no wonder he hurled...”

“So you are familiar, then?” 

Martin sits back with a sigh. He tucks the last of the mess into the plastic bag before responding, “The fae are extremely dangerous. Daisy told us to avoid them under all circumstances... But...”

“But...” Jon clacks his fingers together expectantly. He can feel his pupils are blasted wide.

“You want to jump head first in there, don’t you?” Martin stands, “It’s too dangerous! We can’t just run in and think we can claw our way out. And it’s not like they’re in the business of just giving back whatever they take.”

Jon sighs, “I cannot just... do nothing. I experienced his pain firsthand... They took his everything.” Martin rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder. It’s thick with callouses and warms his tired shoulder, radiating care. He’s always been this soft, even from the beginning.

“Let’s think about it.” He squeezes, “If we’re going to face them, we’ll need a plan.”

“And I have the start of one.” In the doorway is a newly invigorated Tim, mouth full of bubbles.

“Is that my toothbrush—?” Martin scowls at the blue plastic in his hand.

He saunters in and hooks his arms around the two of them, “You blokes are so sweet. Looking out for lil ol’ Tim.”

“You are spitting.” Jon fails to push away from his hold.

“We’re gonna blow those fae to smithereens!”

* * *

The three of them sit quietly, engine rumbling the only sound filling the empty recess of the hollowed out van. Tim fiddles around with a lighter, his other hand clutched over the top of a bulging burlap sack. Jon, even now, is pressed deep into a book, despite the fact that no more information will help them at this point. And Martin...

He stares down into his silver locket. It burns his fingertips to hold it open, but he looks on at the contents wistfully anyway. Jon is distracted by the faint hissing noise of skin burning, so he decides to put his book away. He wasn’t retaining much anyway.

“What do you have there, Martin?” His voice startles Martin, causing him to snap the locket shut on instinct. Jon had seen the heart shaped necklace before when he first met Tim and Martin. It’s never far from Martin’s neck, either, even if it does rub a red ring into his tender skin.

Martin forces a smile onto his face before regarding Jon, “It’s just my necklace. I shouldn’t have brought it, I don’t wear it when I know I’m gonna wolf out, but I guess I just wanted the comfort...”

Jon worms over to him. The motion of the van is a little unsteady, but he finds himself stable and relaxed at Martin’s side, “I have never had the privilege to veer inside, may I?” Martin hands the necklace over with little fanfare.

The silver thing is around the size of a 50 pence piece. It lies hot in his palm, beaming Martin’s warmth. He gently wedges it open with his jagged nails. One half of the locket is empty, but the other half contains a small picture of a boy - definitely Martin - and his red-headed mother. The boy beams, arms wrapped dearly around his mother’s neck, but the mother seems less than pleased to be taking the picture.

“That’s my mum.” He points with his painted nail. A soft smile adorns his lips, but his brows furrow, “We have a complex relationship, don’t always get along, but she’s my mum, y’know?”

“Sounds not unlike my gram.” The words leave his mouth before he processes them. He didn’t know he had a grandmother, not that he recalled, and yet he can picture her scowl clearly in his mind. Not much different from Martin’s mother in the picture.

Martin doesn’t make any notice of Jon’s revelation, “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve visited, I guess I should see her after we...” He doesn’t finish his thought. Jon knows that Martin never operates on certainties, and thus this is a situation that he must leave open to possibility, even if those possibilities are terrifying and destructive.

“I’ll go with you.” Tim says, “When we all walk away from this.”

“Perhaps,” Jon delicately latches the locket shut, “I should pocket this for you. It would be a right shame if any harm came to it; I am bound by oath to return it once we are out of harm’s way.”

Martin gives a sheepish grin, his ragged teeth poking out from behind his cracked lips, “Good ideas all around...”

The van pulls to a stop. An uncomfortable silence fills the space as the engine dies, the raw metal frame losing its heat. No one wants to be the first to rise, to step out to their doom. They glance around in hopes someone will be brave enough to speak and say all the right things.

Basira calls from the driver’s seat, “We’re here.” There’s a slight agitation in her voice. It had taken a lot of convincing to get her to chauffeur them behind Daisy’s back, and now they were taking up more of her time. Tim is finally the one who decides to take action, wordlessly stepping out of the back of the van, sack clunking behind him. Martin and Jon are left with no choice but to follow.

The van pulls off, leaving just the trio and the ominous tent. Smoke billows from the opening, just as Jon remembers. Or rather, as Tim remembers and he saw in said memory. Tim strides confidently up to the flap opening and flippantly slaps it out of the way to get through. Jon is astonished by his guts this time around, like he’s been mentally preparing for this confrontation for the past two weeks on top of all of the physical preparation.

Something foreboding curls angrily in his stomach.

The seats are filled with mannequins just like the memory; nothing about the tent has changed. Martin’s fear is thick in his nostrils while they watch the mannequins knock against each other; no eyes, but watching expectantly.

Determined, Tim approaches the ring. This is where he stopped last time as he watched his coven dance themselves to pieces. Are they even still alive? They can’t know. But the tension in his jaw refuses to slacken and his eyes hunt through the thick fog to find something to lock on to.

The fog thins and the ringmaster appears in the middle of the ring. Martin whimpers when he sees the stolen parts throbbing around in the thing’s face. Tim merely grips the edge of the ring.

“What? You’ve come back for more of a show?” The ringmaster taunts, and the stands alight with hollow, prerecorded laughter.

Jon does not expect Tim to vault over the edge of the ring with no hesitation. Stepping into a ring accidentally means death; willingly doing so is...

He realizes that Tim has brought no protection with him, just their cache in the burlap sack. Maybe he doesn’t intend to leave here after tonight. That he chose this as his final resting place: a fae infested tent heckling his corpse.

Jon steps over the barrier. It’s not a hard decision, really, he’s already dead. He offers Martin a hand and helps him step over the barrier as well.

The ringmaster laughs, “You brought friends this time! We love an audience.”

Tim ignores it in favor of his bag. He fishes out one of the contents, a soda can with a wick sticking out of the popped top, and lights it. The wick sizzles as the fire eats it away. He winds his arm back, and in one beautiful arc he chucks it across the ring.

It lands right at the ringmaster’s feet, “Attacking a sprite with a sprite? Good wordplay, but not enou—“ The can explodes, launching a barrage of nails into the air. They dig into the plastic flesh with a hiss. The ringmaster screams.

A nail bomb is a work of art. The concussive force of a chemical reaction can send particulate flying at such a velocity that it’s lethal. Ordinarily this would be nothing to a fae - they’re rather sturdy - but if your particulate is made of a certain metal, for instance, iron, then the capacity for lethality is increased. The hot iron nails melt the plastic they imbed themselves into, and the ringmaster is not pleased.

It kicks the scraps of the can still remaining on the ground. Tim readies another nail bomb. The mannequins watching decide to stand and rush the ring.

Cans fly through the air. The crackle as they explode mirrors the rattle of wooden joints. Martin morphs more wolf-like and starts tearing the assailants apart. Jon uses his sharp nails. Iron nails are fireworks cutting through the kicked up dust.

Unfortunately, the mannequins are rather sturdy: wooden bodies hiding their metal joints. As soon as one is torn down, two more take its place. It’s a losing battle even with Tim’s nail bombs.

Then, the ceramic dancers take the floor. Everyone is startled, even the mannequins freeze in confusion. They spin around on the floor, stumbling over the debris and getting dirt caught in their tulle tutus. Jon and Tim are particularly struck by the dancers, as they are the same dancers that brought them here in the first place. They kick around nails littered on the ground until they make a crude circle.

In their finale, they have carved a key to the way out. They bow to the crowd.

The mannequins, now over their stupor, go back to attacking. Jon is knocked to the floor, not because he is overpowered, but because he’s unable to tear his eyes away from the iron circle. He remembers all sorts of rituals involving such construction. It’s a symbol of connectedness to the mother Gaia, wholeness of mind, body, spirit, of ecosystems, of relationships, of life. The porcelain fakes twirl around it, protecting its sanctity.

“Jon??” Martin calls out, seeing him getting thrown around. He thinks about the wholeness of his relationships, receiving love and giving it freely. Doling out care to those who need it. The way he wrestles with his packmates, affection oozing from physicality. His strong arms, objectively the best for his healing hugs. The intention behind every smile... He deserves to keep that, he thinks.

So he pushes his way over to Tim, close enough that his lips graze his ear as he says, “I need some blood, Tim.”

Tim is startled to have something deep in his personal space, but regains composure quickly. His burlap sack is nearing empty of cans. Jon thinks about the wholeness of Tim’s part in the ecosystem: killing evil to make the world a better place, even if that evil is endless. His body toned specifically to fight for what’s right. Learning to turn information into action. He deserves to continue that, he thinks.

“Blood!?” He chucks another lit can, “You know what? What the hell, have your fill.”

“I need you to look at me so I can hypnotize you.”

“No time, just take it.” He doesn’t look at Jon, just shucks his coat sleeve off and leans his head to one side. He’s still focused on playing keep away with the mannequins, though the nails on the floor are doing a pretty good job.

There is no time, so Jon must act. He slots his head into the crevice of Tim’s neck, front teeth tickling his carotid artery, and extrudes his fangs.

At first Tim muffles a pained sound, his lips pressing together in a tight line that make them recede into his mouth. But then his eyes shoot open, pupils wide and threatening to spill over. His breathing hitches, and Jon can feel the blood rushing to the two holes he’s created.

He only takes a sip. It’s all he needs. Just that small amount leaves Tim shaking and sweating. He’s gone through enough.

And so he heads for the iron circle of nails so generously protected by the porcelain dancers. They let him through and he steps inside their ring, inside the iron ring.

The answer is simple really. These people have friends and family, things to live and continue for. Their smiles have been such a comfort, but the fact of the matter is that everyone that Jon knew is now dead. Even his body is just an empty container driven by a loose soul, life only thrumming through him when he drinks it away from others. He’s taken enough, he thinks, time to return the favor.

He pokes a hole in his fingertip with one of his fangs. The blood bubbles to the surface, eager to burst. He allows a drop on all four of the cardinal directions. The drops are drawn to each other, carving a moat around the inside of the iron circle. Jon draws out a claw and drags it across the inside of his palm. Warm blood floods the surface and he gives it a good squeeze to waterfall down between his knees.

“Gaia,” his lip quivers. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smudging blood in the corners, “mother of all. You have given me a second chance at this life. For what reason, I cannot be certain...” 

He looks out to Martin, tearing apart any mannequin he can get his hands on. His eyes are tired and dark. Tim has used his last nail bomb, the tang of poisonous fertilizer thick in the air, and now is trying to find a weapon to continue the fight.

“I wish to return to you...” He has to do this, “The gift you have given me. As such, I would appreciate an exchange: my life for theirs. My cycle has completed while theirs has just begun... So, if you please...”

Tears mix in with the blood between his knees. What a right mess, splashing onto his trousers. When did he even start crying in the first place? He feels a heat vibrating in his pocket, the blood pile dancing in tune. He reaches in to feel the adorned silver of the locket resonating with the cells of someone else’s blood. Through the pile begins sprouting a small green plant. It grows fast, coiling up over his forearm, bursting with little yellow flowers.

The flowers quickly entomb him, spreading up and over the ring. All of the mannequins stop what they’re doing and run. Where they hope to go, who knows. But the Saint John’s Wort crashes in like a wave, dissolving the already nail-battered mannequins. It curves around Martin and Tim, the force pulling them up off the ground. 

Once all the mannequins have been dealt with, the vines retreat to where they came from. In the middle of it lies Jon, body breaking the circle of the nails, surrounded by a halo of porcelain bodies. The fragile substance has chipped in several places, revealing real skin underneath. Even Danny is resting nearby, cradled in a braid of plant matter.

Martin and Tim rush over. Their clothes are plastered to their skins, dirt caked on their faces and arms, even blood trickling down Tim’s neck. He picks at the porcelain face of a nearby dancer, the ceramic flaking off and revealing the face of one of the coven members, unconscious but alive. He sets to work shucking the coven of their kiln-fired prison, ignoring the snot bubbling down his face.

Martin’s attention is set on Jon. His body is splayed upon the ground in an uncomfortable position, limbs akimbo. No twitch of muscles, no rise and fall of the chest, no warmth under his skin; these would be normal for Jon if not for the blood gushing from the wound on his hand like it can’t get out fast enough. His once gentle heartbeat is now silent.

Martin doesn’t want to touch him, afraid his fears will be true, “Jon...” he kneels beside him, “Jon... wake up, Jon...”

Tim pauses, seeing Martin start to shake. He wants to say something, but Martin continues. “Jonathan... if you don’t wake up right now, you’ll be in very, very big trouble.” He snakes a hand under Jon’s head, lifting it off the ground. It’s heavy, no muscle stretching to help hold itself up, and the movement jostles his glasses down onto his cheeks. 

“No... no Jon, you have to wake up.” He grips his shoulder and gives it a shake. Something you’d do to someone who’s spent too long in bed, “We did it, we won! But now you have to wake up, or... or...”

“Martin, Martin, hey...” Tim puts his hand on his back, rubbing a small circle, “Look, his eyes are moving!” And sure enough, under Jon’s bruised eyelids is an assortment of movement in every direction. Eyes moving like they’re dreaming.

“Oh thank God.” Martin pulls Jon to his chest. He wipes away the tears that pooled in his eyes.

“He just needs some sleep, is all.” He pats Martin on the back, “Why don’t you help me get my coven somewhere safe, huh?”

* * *

_Good show, very good show, Archivist. You have been quite the little thorn in my side, haven’t you? It’s what you do best, I suppose._

_Did you have fun? Find a filthy animal to protect you and a worthless human to tug on your heartstrings? Did you scuttle around the city just aching for trouble to stick your head straight into? London has changed quite a bit in the time you’ve been away. Must’ve been quite the experience, I’m almost jealous!_

_But all good things must come to an end. Back to sleep you go! I can’t have you mucking up my plans again. Maybe this time you’ll turn feral sooner rather than later and I can add you to the pack in the archives. Doesn’t that sound nice? Back home among the books where you belong?_

_Well, I certainly hope you rest well. Sweet dreams, you meddlesome Archivist brat..._

**Author's Note:**

> Critique welcome! Might write a sequel, but it's gonna take a solid month at least
> 
> Find me at @cftcft9090 on tumblr


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